


Carried by the River Tide

by Ramzes



Series: Dancing Dragons, Burning Suns [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: Matches between people from different regions always demand some serious transition - and when these regions are Dorne and the Vale, the almost polar opposites in Westeros, the transition can be very hard indeed. This is the story of Isanne, my Vale character in Dorne, with the transition that never quite happened.
Series: Dancing Dragons, Burning Suns [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/286881
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

A long day was fading out. The long-awaited stir of evening breeze brought a much-expected reprieve from the swelter. The last rays of the sun laid a veil of shimmer over sea and bricks, dwellings and roads and for a brief moment, the magnificence of the Old Palace and the hovels of the shadow city merged in one vision of beauty.

Isanne Gargalen turned away from the window, swaying unsteadily as the darkness that had already started filling the solar from the open door met her eyes so soon after the radiance of a glorious sunset. Only then did she notice that she had a visitor.

“You should have told me you were here,” she said.

Mellario of Norvos shrugged. “I am in no hurry,” she said. “Arianne is in her father’s study. Quentyn is sleeping. The servants are already getting the hall ready for the feast. I am not needed anywhere.”

Her voice was neutral – the studied neutrality that Isanne recognized so well from her own days here, many years ago… _But this was only in my first years here_ , she thought with a stir of concern. _It’s Mellario’s eight and she’s still as lost and out of her element as I was in the very beginning of my marriage_ …

The two women had gotten along ever since Mellario had arrived here as a new bride. Surely, sometimes she had kept Isanne at an arm’s length, incensed that the older woman was supportive of her own goodmother but not since the Princess of Dorne had entered the last stages of her illness. After all, Arianne Martell could do nothing to make Mellario’s life worse now – and Isanne had never been able to convince the girl that it had never been Arianne’s purpose anyway.

“I love sunset,” she said. “It’s so different from the sunset in my youth. When we’re in the desert, Mikkel tasks me with waking him up because I’m always awake to watch the sun rise. So very different.”

“I think I would have loved to see a sunset in the Vale,” Mellario said softly.

“One day you will,” Isanne said and the young woman’s mouth twitched in a curve of bitterness.

“Yes, if I stay here this long.”

Suddenly, Isanne laughed. “You know, I said the same thing once. And the very same day, I was kidnapped and as the brigands carried me out gagged and bound, I wondered if Mikkel would even bother coming after me because I had declared I was leaving, so he would have thought that I just had done it…”

Mellario looked at her, not quite sure if this was a jest, so she asked.

“No,” Lady Gargalen replied. “That’s exactly what happened. I wasn’t someone who took to her new life this easily…”

* * *

Her father was thrilled. Match with the son of the Hand of the King was exactly what he desired – actually, it excelled his ambitions by far. And a match that would elevate his daughter among what she could reasonably expect, making her a lady of a prominent House – why, to him it might have well been an unattainable dream! Until now.

Isanne was horrified. Match with a Dornishman was the last thing she desired. Everyone knew that Dornishmen had no morals! And the brief time she had spent at court before her betrothal, in the company of the heiress of Dorne, had done nothing to dissuade her of this notion. Her future goodsister gave the performance expected of her, showed the gowns, manners, and conversations that people wanted to see but underneath, there was always this streak of wildness that few would recognize, unless they were like Arianne herself or were totally unlike her. Isanne belonged to the latter group. Her mother, a pious woman and a lady to the bone, had instilled her with the propriety that any man would be delighted to find in his bride.

Any man but a Dornishman?

Many years later, she would shake her head at the memory of her relief when she had first seen him. Mikkel did not _look_ like a Dornishman. He had taken after his mother, the Targaryen princess. Very handsome, incredibly fair-haired, with purple eyes that missed nothing, he was something that had come out of a maiden’s dream. Barely seventeen, he had already won three of the most disputed tournaments against distinguished rivals in a row – and Isanne had read and heard enough to be swayed by it. It did matter. No girl wanted a husband whose knowledge of arms consisted of “just prick them with the sharp end”. The Vale thrived on stories of knights, battles and valour and Mikkel looked like someone who had come straight out of them.

Isanne was also seventeen, after all. And he did not behave in any way that would mark him as a Dornishman. He was always controlled, in full check of his temper, polite. Not hotheaded at least. He looked different. He _was_ different.

Since childhood, she had been warned that a choice was out of her reach, so the thought of feeling resentful had not come into her mind for a moment and after meeting him, even less. That was why she was so shocked when she realized that _he_ might not feel the same way.

“I can arrange it. You just tell me.”

The words shocked Isanne to the core of her being but at the same time, they made sense. Mikkel’s brother, Arianne’s betrothed was known for wildness that exceeded Arianne’s own by far – and also for his great relationship with Mikkel. For two people as different as they were, they were constantly together, having each other’s back… sharing each other’s secrets. Somehow, it had slipped her mind that she might be one of those secrets. That Mikkel might be reluctant to wed her.

Now, Mikkel laughed, the sound surprisingly bitter in the solitude of Arianne’s solar. Isanne remained frozen at the other side of the door.

“I can just imagine how well it’s going to go with Father. _Oh, Mikkel doesn’t want to get wed. No, no, there’s nothing wrong with the lady; in fact, she’s as lovely as they come. No, he hasn’t caught her cavorting with someone else. It’s just because he fears they’re too different._ He’s going to be thrilled, I’m telling you!”

“I’m not planning to discuss it with Father at all,” Alric replied. “Arianne is going to help, I’m sure. The betrothal has not been announced yet. I know you, Mikkel. I’ve seen you with her and how you are then. I’ve also seen you with _her_ and…”

“And she’s already betrothed,” Mikkel cut him off. “And my betrothal is as good as announced. I’m not going back on my word. Who do you take me for – Duncan?”

“No,” Alric said bitingly. “I’m sure you will fight your own fight if needed, not sending someone bigger and stronger to do It for you… You still have time, you know. Arianne and I, we’re going to help. But once it is announced, I won’t be able to do anything.”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Mikkel stated and paused. “What made you suggest it anyway? Why?”

Alric hesitated. “I can see you’re scared,” he said. “I’m not used to seeing you like this. I don’t like it. I want you to be as eager as I am to wed Arianne.”

“Perhaps it just isn’t in my nature to be eager,” Mikkel said pensively.

 _Or perhaps it just isn’t in your nature with me_ , Isanne thought. Amazingly, this time Alric showed some restraint and did not say it.

The last thing Isanne took away from this conversation was the sight of the two hands, one pale and one dark, clasped tight in one another.

After this, it wasn’t hard to realize which was the girl Alric had referred to. A companion of Arianne’s, if not a friend, exactly. Not as lovely as Isanne herself. But it didn’t matter. As the betrothal was announced and life went on, as Mikkel won another tournament and crowned her as he should, pointedly keeping his eyes on her and her alone, Isanne wondered if he thought he should have really crowned _her_. The Queen of Love and Beauty – Isanne was the more beautiful and it was plain to see. But love? Perhaps the Dornish girl was more beautiful in his eyes because he loved her? Did he still?

The wedding was as magnificent as could be expected and even more. The King was in attendance, of course, and while it was something that Mikkel took for granted, to Isanne it was a great honour. Everyone of note in King’s Landing had come to see the son of the Hand getting wed – the Great Sept was almost too small to contain all the guests. Isanne focused on breathing in and out and not swooning under the weight of the gems her gown was sewn with. Her mother had really overdone it. At some point, Mikkel realized what was going on and wrapped an arm about her waist. Isanne knew it would be taken as an improper affection on his part since the ceremony was not over yet but fainting was even more improper, so she leaned against him and let him take much of her weight – and the weight of the gems.

In the years that followed, he would always strive to take the weight off her. Until the day he became the one burdening her, although against his will and even against his very knowledge.

* * *

Isanne did her best to get used to life in Dorne but this life always had something to surprise her with. She thought she had just got the handle of which topics were safe to discuss with Vaiths, only to find out that these same topics were a receipt for trouble with the Qorgyles; she found herself expressing willingness to donate to a sept, only to find out that the woman she was conversing with was no septa but a priestess of a goddess – a Lysene love goddess if you please! Since her goodmother had remained behind in King’s Landing with her husband, it fell to Isanne to act as the Lady of Salt Shore and she found herself thoroughly unprepared to rule a household consisting of people who she did not know and whose accent, a dialect of the Dornish accent, actually, she struggled to understand. Mikkel often found her with a scroll or two in bed as she tried to get some basic understanding of mining.

“I appreciate your attempt to try, Isanne,” he would say. “But you’re torturing yourself in vain. You’re doing great already. And over time, life will teach you about salt mines anyway, better than any book. Don’t overexert yourself needlessly.”

“There is nothing that can teach anyone better than a book,” Isanne said but life did indeed – the day Mikkel returned from the mines with the skin of his left lower arm peeling off. Salt in a wound was a thing, it turned out.

“I am not doing great, not really,” she admitted to him one night. “I’m just faking it.”

“And then, you’ll be making it,” he replied, pushing the neckline of her nightgown further down her shoulder, more interested in what was under the soft fabric than her apprehensions. “Aren’t we all?”

And they were, all of them – Mikkel, Alric, Arianne. They were all so young and left to fill their parents’ shoes, one way or another. The Prince of Dorne was ailing. Lord Gargalen and his lady wife did not plan on coming back soon. Whispers and speculations followed their every step, with the expectation that in no time at all, the force that prevailed would establish control over Sunspear and Salt Shore would just sink into poverty and obscurity.

“Not as long as I draw breath!” Arianne vowed passionately.

“Not as long as I can make them choke on this,” Alric raged.

“Not on my watch,” Mikkel said calmly but with steely resolve. At the time, Isanne did not know it – perhaps she had not wanted to understand – but this steel was too much, even for him. Sometimes, even Alric looked worried.

Slowly – oh ever so slowly – things started falling in the right directions. They were not giving up. The salt mines held on, as did House Gargalen’s standing in Dorne. Those who had expected that Mikkel’s youth meant that he could easily be pushed aside and taken advantage at were bitterly disappointed – as were those who had planned a similar fate for Arianne and Alric. Isanne heartily approved everything they did to prevent it – maneuvering was part of the game and it was no different here than in the Vale. But everything else was different – the customs, the accent, the _experiences_ people here had had. She found it hard to relate to them. Sometimes, her husband started to behave like them – he invited to their table people, _men_ who came with other men and did not hide it. He passed judgments that went against every code of morals, against common sense! In Salt Shore, no will would be invalidated in order to stop the support of a longtime mistress – paramour, as they called it. He actually recommended a bastard woman for a high office in Arianne’s court.

“It’s unnatural,” Isanne said, “to treat a mistress as if she were a wife. We all know she isn’t. Why should I invite her at the celebrations? It will cast shadow on us as well and…”

“Not in Dorne, it won’t,” Mikkel replied casually. “I’m sure the Seven will understand, Isanne,” he added and she gasped. Now, he had become a blasphemer as well. It was Alric’s influence and she told him so. A bad move because he immediately stiffened.

“What,” he asked very softly, “do you have against my brother again?”

* * *

“If Lord Alric was anything like Oberyn, there was plenty to be held against him,” Mellario said with venom that was untypical for her. She had yet to forgive Oberyn for his part in the affair resulting in the deal that would take Quentyn to Yronwood as soon as he grew up some.

“Well, Oberyn has taken it from somewhere,” Isanne replied. “And we all know it isn’t his mother.”

Mellario sighed and started lighting the candles. “I am not sure how I feel about him,” she admitted. “Sometimes, he’s just so loathsome that I want to slap him but he can be so caring and concerned, and…”

“So can Alric,” Isanne said, with a smile of understanding. “Even when our loathing of each other reached a peak, he could surprise me. Of course, it goes without saying that he never liked me all that much, not as a woman right for his brother… “


	2. Chapter 2

Mikkel was everything Isanne could have wished in a lord husband and whatever the tensions between them, they were either not his fault or not as great as to cause a real fissure. He likely didn’t even realize that she felt more strongly about them because she would not hint about her feelings in any way and the thought of talking about it terrified her. Their marriage was what her mother had prepared her for, hoped for her – the perfect union with someone of equal standing or in Isanne’s case, quite higher born. Someone who respected her. Listened to her. Even let her influence his decisions. And was always circumspect in his private affairs, even in those long years – over a decade – before they were blessed with an heir. Honestly, Isanne did not even think there _were_ any other women. She was enough for him and this made her heart flutter with indecent joy.

And yet, sometimes things changed. Not a monumental change, mind you. What her mother had not prepared her for was that some things never quite went away. She could see it in the almost imperceptible change of Alric’s attitude towards her when her husband was not careful enough to be a full master of his emotions, in Mikkel himself when he was too busy or tired for this, for years and years. Mikkel stayed the same, time only touching the smoothness of his skin over the years and even this could be equally laid on experiences, on life itself. Isanne’s mirror told her that the same held true for her. Delonne Allyrion could not boast a particular preservation of her youthful prettiness and she had never regained her figure after three closely-spaced births and yet there were moments when Isanne saw Mikkel staring at her a moment too long. In the right light, the line of Delonne’s profile and the curve of her lips could still make him catch his breath, although time has erased the longing that Isanne had glimpsed in him when they had all been young, the wonder that she had always suspected was love.

“You were in love with her,” Alric once said and Isanne froze at the door of her lord husband’s study when she had come to inquire in person just how long the Dornish court, currently visiting Salt Shore, would have to wait on the pleasure of its host and his brother to start the evening feast.

“I thought so at the time, certainly,” Mikkel confirmed.

“I don’t see why you won’t go to her.” Alric’s voice was soft, subdued. Isanne didn’t even need to look at them to know that they were tired and disheartened. This was a particularly bad period in the lives of the Martells and their allies. Soon, it would be two years since little Olivar’s death and Arianne’s womb had not quickened again. Instead, her moonblood had become less regular. Not a good thing at all… except for those who did not wish good on House Martell anyway. “Since her husband’s death, she’s had many lovers. She has children already. And she’s still sweet on you. I can tell. Perhaps while you’re at Sunspear, at least? You’re not looking well, Mikkel. You deserve something good in your life – and I think she’s good for you.”

Isanne’s heart was beating fast as she awaited her husband’s answer, remembering how they looked after one of the long meeting they held with the rest of Arianne’s allies. She did not think they did it on purpose but she had seen the four of them – Alric and Arianne, Mikkel and Delonne. Like… a foursome. Passion and loyalty, despire Alric and Arianne’s indiscretions to each other. A foursome that she was not part of. She could not offer strategy and alliance. A conversation in topics that were dear to the rest of them and had been since their shared childhood. She was just the lady wife.

“You forget,” Mikkel replied. “I do have a wife already.”

Alric snorted. “Isanne doesn’t care what you do, as long as you’re circumspect,” he said. “That’s just her upbringing.”

“She isn’t Arianne,” Mikkel said. “Your arrangements are something that I cannot fathom. And I’m not one to skulk to corners, no more than you are.”

 _No,_ Isanne thought. Y _our Delonne is more like Arianne or rather, the two of you do look like Alric and Arianne sometimes._ Emotionally, that was. When they were too weary to do anything else. And it hurt her, as mortifying as it was for a well-bred lady to admit it.

It was not due to any lack on her part. She knew it and she knew that Mikkel did as well. Only Alric thought otherwise and even now, she knew that it was not that he disliked her. He simply loathed her for being unable to share his brother’s life entirely. He disliked that Mikkel did not have an Arianne of his own. Even as an indiscretion.

* * *

“That’s it!” Mellario exclaimed. “Sometimes, I think that in Oberyn’s mind, ever ready for a bit of high drama, Doran could find someone better than me as soon as he goes out of the Old Palace and turns the first corner! Someone who would not need to get used to Dornish ways and would not criticize constantly!”

Isanne kept her face straight and if she felt that Oberyn’s mind might not be the only one prone to high drama, she did not point it out. “Oberyn doesn’t matter,” she said. “Doran loves you. He won’t listen to him, no more than Mikkel listened to Alric about me – and he was not even infatuated with me.”

It felt weird to say it without pain. Time had this way of soothing old hurts and hidden pains. Delonne Allyrion might have had part of Mikkel but all the rest had been hers. Over time, they had forged a bond, the experience of a lifetime together. What was an old romantic attachment, friendship that in moments of weakness touched on something more compared to this? And the young woman in front of her had had a much better start – Doran had adored her from the start…

“I don’t want him to be infatuated with me,” Mellario said bitterly. “I want him to take me into consideration. Why should I be deprived of my child because of something Oberyn did?”

Isanne sighed inwardly and poured tea without looking at the table. She had done it thousands of times over the years – for Arianne, for her goodmother, for her children and husband, for some of the ladies who merited a special distinction from their hostess. She could do it half-asleep without pouring a drop. She and Arianne had instilled the importance of this in Mellario as well – well, more Isanne than Arianne. Arianne had been busy ruling Dorne and had little time to spare for imparting things of Westerosi social graces to someone who was only used to a world in which women fell into two main categories: ladies and slaves. Till the moment Mellario had wed Doran, she had never done anything that a slave girl could not do for her.

For a while, they lapsed into a companionable silence as they sipped at their tea. “It’s always been my favourite,” Mellario said at last. “Camellia tea. I’ve enjoyed it best since I was a child.”

“Me too,” Isanne replied, remembering how rare and expensive it had been in the Vale. And how differently tea was served and enjoyed in Mellario’s homeland. “Oberyn has nothing to do with it,” she said after a while. “Quentyn would have been fostered out no matter what. It’s just a coincidence that it’s Yronwood that he goes to.”

Mellario shook her head. “Thanks for reminding me that my husband would have traded our son anyway,” she said drily. “I notice that _your_ firstborn was not sent away, though.”

“I wish he had been,” Isanne replied truthfully. “Like his brother and cousins. It’s always hard for a mother to be parted from her children but it’s something that we must do. We must have the courage to send our children if we want them to see them go courageously. I wish I could have done so for Errol… and so does his father.”

It had been impossible, though. One of her goodmother’s eternal regrets was that they had not recognized young Mikkel’s superb flexibility as being what it was – unnatural. An illness. Children were not created to sit on the floor leaning their cheek against the foot they had pressed against their shoulder. But this pliability and quickness had been the foundation of Mikkel’s unsurpassed mastery of blade – and the master at-arms in the House he had been fostered in had followed the example of the master at-arms in the Red Keep, making full use of it without realizing that at sixteen, the boy would already have pains in his joints. They had never quite gone away, not forever, and when the time had come, Mikkel had refused to send Errol, as supple as himself, anywhere out of his sight where he could instruct the master at-arms to limit this flexibility, to his son’s great disappointment. Which mother would rather have her son near but ill? Not Isanne. She had been so happy each time her second son showed any indication that he felt the pain, the warning that he was straining his joints too hard. To Errol and Mikkel, pain always came way too late.

“We aren’t talking about my son but yours,” she said. “Quentyn will grow up healthy there.”

“In the hands of his House’s enemies,” Mellario said again, bitterly. “And Doran doesn’t even care enough to hold it against Oberyn.”

“He held it against Oberyn for a long time,” Isanne sighed. “It was just long before he met you, that’s it. You didn’t see it, so it didn’t happen, right?”

“Kind of,” Mellario admitted, a little ashamed. “And still…”

“Don’t go to a war with your husband over Oberyn!” Isanne warned sharply. “You aren’t going to win.”

“Why?” the young woman challenged. “Because you never did? You said it yourself: Doran is smitten with me, unlike your husband.”

Isanne forsook this emotional argument. “Because Oberyn has been here long before you appeared. Because he’s going to stay no matter what. Doran and Oberyn love each other no matter what happened, no matter what the other does. They’re allies and they will always be.”

“Yes, of course!” Mellario seethed. “When Doran forgives everything Oberyn does, it’s easy for Oberyn to be his ally!”

Isanne shook her head. “May you never see the day when Oberyn forgives Doran about something,” she breathed. “Because he has, long before Doran met you. It’s true that usually, Oberyn and Alric are the ones in need of being forgiven – but when they are the forgiving ones, they forgive things that can tear people apart…”

* * *

Sometimes, it was easy to forget, now that she had her children. The Mother knew that she wished to visit this place of grief and despair no more than Mikkel wished to go back to them, together with his shame and mortification! For all the tolerance Isanne had always witnessed her husband giving his wild, hotheaded brother, she wondered whether she, in Alric’s place, would have been able to put behind those months – some of the most miserable in their lives…

It all started with fighting prowess, of course it did. What else could it start from for two highborn boys of the same age and same blood? At the tender age of sixteen, about the time he was betrothed to Isanne, Mikkel challenged his cousin Duncan in a tourney – and won, starting the progress of what would be known as the longest reign of uninterrupted wins in every major fight in every major occasion.

The lie of this longest reign. And also, the truth of it. Because mere flexibility would mean nothing if Mikkel did not put forth effort and he did so. Plentily. Isanne did not mind at the time – she was actually proud of the prowess of her betrothed and then, husband. Of course, he had never thought of sharing with her the truth about the pains but as they lived together, it was impossible to keep it a secret; soon, as they became closer, Isanne was the one to hand him the potions prepared by Qyburn, the master of Salt Shore, the ones that lulled his joints and muscles into easier obedience and let them relax when they could not do so on their own. Of course, the thought of cutting his efforts short never crossed Mikkel’s mind and neither did it Isanne’s. They were both seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years old and between them, they had barely experienced any serious pain but this – they could not know what a lifetime of recurring pain _meant_. Sure, sometimes they talked about him making himself sicker by keeping on training as usual but it did not feel real.

Alric, however, did.

Alric. So good. Incomparable, almost. Second only to Mikkel, always. When it mattered, at least. He won against his brother many times – just as many as Mikkel won against him. But these wins were always on a lesser scene – a practice, a small tourney in a relatively minor holding. Not where Alric wanted them most. Not in Saltshore. Not in Sunspear. Not in King’s Landing either.

As hard as she tried, years later Isanne could not say when things had started changing. When the rivalry on the field had leapt straight over the fence of competitiveness in one field and turned into real, vivid hostility that slowly started leaking into other areas as well. In fact, she was almost glad because Alric was one influence that Mikkel could well do without!

But this does not give him the right to be _this_ resentful. He would have been better served if he spent more time in practice if he wanted to win so badly! In fact, he did, for a while, but then started being downright obnoxious.

“I want to know what he does,” he claimed, although, thank the Seven, never in front of someone who was not a trusted relative or a dear friend. “Mikkel is cheating. Somehow.”

He even said so to his brother’s face which promptly led to a fight, quite physical fight. After this, they had not spoken for two months.

Isanne could not say when Alric’s attitude changed once again, either, but she remembered the sick feeling pooling in her stomach when she realized how _concerned_ he was. “Something is wrong with him,” Alric kept saying. “This isn’t him. No one can improve this fast – and the improvement is in his skills alone. It looks like it has been taken from his very soul. He’s not the same person. I’ve seen venom in the practice yard but he’s too ferocious – in and out. He’s changed. Not for the good.”

Mikkel would never tell her something this private but Isanne could see how much it hurt him, how much _Alric_ hurt him out of spite for never quite measuring up. At the time their hostility reached the point where it could turn a fire into a freezing icicle, Isanne could and would kill Alric herself if she thought she could get away with it! She could hardly bear the thought that he’d be part of the life of the babe she was currently expecting, a wonder and joy for both her and Mikkel…

And then, one night, the two of them left the Red Keep, embroiled in an argument that was already turning into a heated exchange spinning out of control. Initially, Isanne, Arianne and frankly, their goodparents were just relieved that no one would overhear them and repeat the saucy and truthful rumour to everyone who would listen – the tension was bad enough without this – but then as night fell over and they did not return, uneasiness started creeping through Isanne with each breath she drew. The babe was moving quite rapidly and she wanted to go to her bedchamber and lay down for a rest but somehow, she could not make herself rise, leave the solar, leave the air of anxious anticipation generated by all of them. She could not say why they were so anxious either.

“If they have not returned before the next hour, I’m starting a searching party,” her goodfather finally said. “They’re really awfully late.”

Alric entered only a moment later, as if summoned by his father’s words. Isanne gasped a the sight of him and the stiff way he held his arm. Her eyes immediately found the dark spot spreading all over his sleeve – even the dark fabric could not hide it entirely and it could not hide the fact that he was bleeding all over his mother’s carpet either.

“What happened?” Arianne cried, rising and going towards him immediately. “Do you have another wound or - ? Where is Mikkel?”

“He’s in his chambers, I imagine,” Alric replied and his voice reminded Isanne of cracking leaves. “I waited to make sure he’d make it here safely. I rode straight into a branch that tore my arm,” he added. “It’s worse than it looks. I’ll have it cleaned later. No, Isanne, perhaps it’s better not to go there,” he added to her as she rose, more awkwardly than Arianne. “Not right now.”

Without paying any attention to him, she headed towards Mikkel’s chambers but stopped in the shadows as soon as she took the first turn. Waiting with bated breath, she saw Alric and Arianne walk slowly out of the solar and as soon as Arianne closed the door, Alric leaned heavily against her. She wrapped an arm about his middle. “What happened?” she asked as they walked straight past Isanne. “You look ill.”

“Nothing,” Alric replied as Isanne followed them cautiously from some distance, resolutely refusing to head her mother’s voice that kept repeating in her head that eavesdropping was unbecoming a lady. She wanted to know what was going on and she was not sure Mikkel would tell her. Alric certainly looked reluctant to tell Arianne.

“Nothing?” her goodsister repeated. “This is a sword slash, Alric, not a branch mark. In the torchlight, it could do before your parents, although I suspect they have seen right through you as well but… Tell me,” she added after a while. “Was it his doing?”

Slowly, Alric nodded and Isanne’s heart sank. Later, she would wonder why she did not doubt him for a moment now when she had been convinced for months that he was just jealous and bitter. “Yes,” he breathed and actually stopped in his tracks to bring Arianne even closer with his undamaged arm. His voice was shaking. “It was like a delirium… He did not know what he was doing…”

Arianne might have been expecting this but still Isanne could hear her gasp, see the knuckles of her hands go white as she held him tight. “Mikkel has gone mad,” Alric rasped out. “This isn’t my brother anymore. Something is happening to him, Arianne, and I don’t know how to help him. He is no longer a master of himself and…”

Isanne could hear nothing more – the blood was roaring in her ears way too loudly. She turned back and headed for her chambers, this time for real, her fear flying before her suddenly too heavy feet.

He stood framed against the window, firelight casting his profile in sharp relief before the flames danced and the shadows swallowed him. His silver hair shone like a halo, the only steady thing about him. He looked so pure, Isanne thought, stunned and scared.

When he looked at her, she gasped. Behind his eyes, the monsters danced. One could not take the Targaryen haughty good looks without at least some of their madness and Isanne wondered how she had not thought about it before. One of his uncles had been mad, the other – a drunkard. His grandfather had become a kinslayer in a moment of ill-timed ire… or so the official story went.

Mikkel wetted his lips and hesitantly asked, “Is… is he…?”

“He’s going to live,” Isanne said shortly. “I don’t think he’s going to lose the arm either, I didn’t see any numbness indicating a severed muscle or something. And he didn’t give you out. He claimed it was only a branch, an accident…”

She waited for him to ask her how she knew what had happened, then, but he did not. He seemed only focused on his brother. “He has already cleaned the wound, right? And it has stopped bleeding?”

“I don’t know!” she replied impatiently. “I don’t know, Mikkel! What happened?”

He shook his head, slowly. “I don’t know either,” he admitted, looking dazed. “It was as if someone else took a hold over me. He made me so angry and I…” He fell silent, helplessly. “We have fought many times before,” he added. “Fists are our preferred method for putting irreconcilable differences behind. But not like this. We had never raised a blade towards each other, never. I regretted it as soon as I saw the blood. I… I don’t understand…”

But soon enough, he did. They all did. Alric had been right to cry foul, it turned out. He had been right all along.

“He was right and I should have listened,” Mikkel said tiredly, rubbing his elbow against the pain that he would never take anything to treat again. “Instead, I decided that he was just envious.”

Isanne could say nothing to this because really, what could be said? Alric’s forearm had healed nicely but the other split – it would be much harder to recover from. Isanne knew it even without having a sister and thus, having experienced anything similar.

“In the beginning, I did as well,” Arianne admitted, shame-faced. “It was only for a short time but I did not trust him either. You are in a good company, Mikkel.”

He snorted. “As if these are comparable! Last time I heard, he wanted to see you. I’m the one he closes the door to and I can’t say I blame him.”

Arianne made a reflexive motion, as if she was about to take his hand, but reconsidered. “He’ll come around, Mikkel. He’s too hurt and discouraged right now. But he cares for you. It was he who came up with the idea to look into the maester’s doings. If not, you could have still….”

Mikkel shuddered. “Don’t say it,” he said. “Please don’t.”

She nodded but she did not say anything else either.

“How am I supposed to look him in the eye when he does agree to see me?” Mikkel finally asked, levelly, with this levelness that he always used to mask despair.

Arianne huffed, looking amused, of all things. “Who, the Alric I know? You know he always forgives everything – with a good reason, because everyone constantly needs to forgive _him_.” She paused and this time actually touched Mikkel’s hand. “Don’t fret about him. I mean it,” she said. “He’s hurt and disappointed right now but nothing can make a dent in his love for you. Just give him some time.”

He stared at her for a long time, as if trying to decide if she meant it.

Just when he smiled, however faintly, Isanne gasped and pressed a hand to her belly, as if she could stop the birth that had started way too early.


End file.
